


The Pretty Cages

by bolide_belle, GlowAmber



Series: The Pretty Series [Tangled Circus AU] [1]
Category: Tangled (2010), Tangled: The Series (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-23 13:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14935574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bolide_belle/pseuds/bolide_belle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlowAmber/pseuds/GlowAmber
Summary: Rapunzel longs to escape from Gothel and actually live her life. Eugene cannot imagine there is more for him than this. No matter how you dress it up, they're both trapped in cages and can only look beyond the bars.[Two-shot, Circus AU. Set in 1870s Chicago.]





	1. Rapunzel

There is a hall beyond her bedroom door, and beyond that, a house she has never seen. Further than that, there is the cobble streets and buildings upon buildings. Beyond her bedroom, there is a world she may never know.

She has never opened her window, never dared step beyond the threshold of safety. Mother has warned her of the dangers and so she stays quite like a caged bird, fluttering around her cage with growing resignation. Years have lengthened her form and her dress and her hair, but still she has never risked the outside world. Her wings were clipped before she even knew she could fly, knew what the sensation could be, and so she shouldn't miss it.

She shouldn't think of the world beyond her window, beckoning to her like it knows her. Rapunzel shouldn't stare at the bright lights on the horizon when the tents rise up, shouldn't be so bold as to finally crack the glass panes and wood apart. There is a wild beating in her chest and she feels like she might explode, her fingers tremble, but the window opens all the same.

The musty smell of her room is suddenly hit with waves of the earlier rain, of the smoke from fires curling out of chimneys nearby, and a curious sweet and buttery scent she cannot place. 

The tents beyond the cityline call to her with colors she doesn't know, gritty and bright all at once. She chews on her lip, staring at them, listening to the distant calls of children laughing and the exhilarated cries of crowds. There are signs, she has seen, plastered everywhere with ugly paintings but beautiful words. 

‘Barony Big Top Circus.’

It promises fun, it promises excitement. It whispers of freedom and dreams she has never put to paper or tongue because they were so delicate. She grips her windowsill and leans forward, nervous enough that she feels she might throw up. 

No one pays mind to the girl with the long golden hair, no one thinks of how she stares unblinkingly at a place further off. She might be crying, she isn't sure, but she knows she is terrified of the truth. Either Mother is right and the world will kill her, or Mother is wrong and she has spent eighteen years jumping at shadows.

Rapunzel puts a bare foot on the sill and she stands there with her hands braced on either side of her.

There is a hall beyond her bedroom door, and beyond that, a house that will be her tomb. Further than that, there is the cobble streets and buildings upon buildings and a place that calls itself a circus. Beyond her bedroom, there is a world she may never know if she lets herself be caged anymore. 

She takes in a deep breath, and Rapunzel lets herself go.

Her body pitches forward and she swings an arm out, throwing her hair to catch around a downspout at the last second. The ground rises up so fast to greet her, but there is the tug against her nape and then she hangs, scared. It is tentative, her first feel of stone and outside. It is terrifying, letting her hair drop into her arms. 

She is outside.

She has left her room. 

Her eyes rise, alarmed, to her open window to confirm she has indeed gone insane. Boredom and longing seized her, and now, she is statue still with the overwhelming mix of curiosity and guilt. All the same, she finds herself braiding her hair into thick patterns while her feet spin her slow to take it all in. There is so much, outside, almost too much and yet she thinks it will never be enough.

Rapunzel came out for a reason, however, and she pads along the walkways with the scent of the circus to guide her. Her fingers drag over wet brick walls, the texture of rough interspersed by the slick of the advertisements haphazardly glued everywhere, and she finds she likes the mixture. 

Eyes are on her at every turn, she knows, but no one stops her while she meanders through the streets. Her hair is too long and the wrong style, her dress scandalously short, and her feet bare. She is wrong for them, wrong for everything, and ahead the city gives way to a once empty lot that overflows with light and sound, now. She is not wrong for them.

From here, she can see the women in such indecent attire and tattoos and one with a beard.

From here, she sees men on unicycles and some with makeup upon their faces. 

From here, she feels the tug so much stronger and her heart beats in time with the music that woke her from her sleep that night.

If Mother knew where she was, she would be so disappointed. Rapunzel knows the fit would be legendary, that she would be locked away without dinner or breakfast for days until Mother thought she was sorry enough for her mistake. She’s not sorry, now, though. She has no money to get in and while she feels bad for what she does, she slips in with a crowd and commits her second sin of the night.

In for a penny, in for a pound. She will make many more transgressions tonight, she’s sure, and she knows she cannot miss this. Now that she’s left her room, she’s come too far to go back without some sort of satisfaction. 

She is jostled on all sides by other patrons of the circus who know what to expect, laughing gaily and rushing to and fro from tent to tent. They talk animatedly about what they have seen and what they will see, and she cannot help but listen in. Everyone speaks the most about a … a high flier, about an acrobat in the big tent, and they sound so impressed. Rapunzel imagines it as she wanders through them, about a man who soars above the crowds like the air is his home. 

What it would be like, she wonders, to be able to fly. Maybe she still feels like a bird in her cage, circling endlessly for an escape and room to stretch her wings, even though she is outside. She is still grounded, after all, unable to feel the wind in her hair.

“Excuse me?” Her voice is meek, she has never spoken to anyone but Mother before, turning to one of the men who looks like he works here. He is tall and dark skinned with a glint of gold at his ear that she finds she likes, she doesn’t know how he keeps it there. It’s probably rude to ask, and she’s already nervous enough as is. “Excuse me… do you know when the high flier act begins?”

He seems startled she’s talking to him, but his smile is… easy and friendly. It has none of the sharpness she associates with smiles, none of the hidden edges she is afraid of. It makes her smile back, bright and wide, and some of that nervous energy slips away from her. 

“You mean Flynn Rider? He’ll be on in about half an hour, honey, you got your ticket?”

Her face falls at the mention of a ticket, because she doesn’t have one-- she isn’t even supposed to be in here. She hasn’t paid for anything, she’s just a thief in this place stealing looks and hopes and a glimpse at something she can never really have. 

“...No ticket, huh? Show’s sold out, too.” He continues, and she feels her heart sink so low she might just cry. This man can fly and she wants to see it so she can imagine what it's like when she goes back to her gilded cage and her view from the window. There is kindness in this man, though, she sees it when she looks back up from her feet and he’s watching her with a soft expression.

He offers her his hand and she looks at it, confused. He is large and her hand is so small, soft compared to the callouses that mark his skin. “Now, now, Princess, no need to have a pretty girl like you cry. Follow me and I’ll get you a good seat, alright?”

Mother has warned her that the world is dangerous, outside, that people will lie and mislead her. That they will try to use her, for her hair, that she will never be safe out here. The man’s hand closes around hers and for all the roughness that marks him as a hard worker, he is gentle. Rapunzel lets out a breath and she follows after him when he guides her away behind the big tent.

There is a small opening that she sees, ahead, that people pass in and out of. Light pours out of it, like the laughter and chatter, and she feels the tug of something again. She wants more than anything to be in there, to be part of all of that, and she practically glows when the man brings her there. 

It is almost overwhelming and it is almost like coming home.

So many people rush around with only half their costumes on, their faces half painted. She is amazed by the animals that lie about with collars and thick chains, by the woman with a snake draped over her shoulders like a scarf. Another tosses knives up and down, practicing aim, and one snicks past their heads to embed in a pole-- her guide yelps, the woman laughs. 

There is magic brimming in this room, in everyone here, different than what lurks in her hair. This is something more tangible, she can feel its presence just radiating from each and every one of them as they pass.

“Here,” He puts down a dirty pillow, purple and gold, and then bows with a gesture as if he has rolled out a red carpet for her. It is placed just at the right spot for her to see beyond a curtain, into the main part of the tent where men with white faces and colorful wigs dance about. They juggle balls and stumble and tumble and Rapunzel cannot stop herself from gasping and laughing, softly. 

She tilts her head back to smile up at the man, who grins back at her. “Thank you,” and she means earnestly, he has no idea what this is to her. He just does an odd gesture where one eye closes and then points at her before backing off, leaving her to her viewing.

The time goes by quickly, faster than she’s ever known it to tick by, and soon the odd men cartwheel through an exit she can see across from her. At the same time, her pulse quickens and the lights dim as blue smoke fills the ring. There is a drumroll that comes from somewhere, she cannot see the drummer but it is loud and pounds in her ears-- but it could also be her heart hammering in her chest, she’s not sure. 

“And now, what everyone has been waiting for! You’ve heard the talk on the streets, you’ve seen the fliers, the man who defies gravity and leaves you on the edge of your seat with your heart in your throat-- Flynn Rider!”

The ring lights up from above, a single spotlight aimed so high up that she cranes her neck back to stare. And loses her breath. He is beautiful, standing on a small platform with an arm outstretched to wave to everyone. The details of his face escape her given the distance, but it is the confidence that draws her in. The ease in which he leans over the edge, daring death and fate, to clearly flash smiles at the crowd. She’s forgotten how to breathe and her eyes must be the size of dinner plates because he looks he is home up there.

And then she gasps, because he swings from the platform on a bar she did not see before, throwing himself high just to catch himself on another one. There is nothing below to save him should he miss, should he slip and fall, but his smile remains. Her blood is rushing as she leans forward, fingers catching on her skirts, drawn to him, amazed by him. He soars from one trapeze to the next, flipping and showing off, like he was made for the air. He flies. 

Longing seizes her; she wants to fly, too.

The acrobatics and flexibility he showcases are impressive, he does things she could only dream to do but he takes them stories up. He has found limits, and surpassed them, and Rapunzel itches to know his secret.

He appears to slip, at one moment, and she almost screams out in terror as he begins to fall, but how does he catch himself with a foot on a bar? How does he swing himself out of danger with a kiss blown to the crowd? The wild fluttering in her chest does not stop, at all, her fingers will leave bruises on her knees from how she grabs herself to keep from jumping to her feet.

When he throws himself, one last time, to the other platform to take a bow? Rapunzel knows she can never go back to Mother and that room. She has seen what is to be free, she has witnessed someone break away from reality and fly like she has only ever dreamed of. 

There is a cage in the city, one with pretty wallpaper and a soft bed, but a cage is a cage. 

Her eyes never leave Flynn Rider as he slides down a rope, unconventional to the end, to take one more bow in the middle of the ring, and then the lights die. That’s where she loses him, just for the moment, and she twists to look around behind her quickly because he has to be joining the other performers, right?

It takes years, it feels like, to spot him talking to the man who had given her the seat. He rubs a towel across his hair and face, covered in sweat, but he grins and laughs.

There is a hall beyond her bedroom door, and beyond that, a house that is only her cage. Further than that, there is the cobble streets and buildings upon buildings and a world that begs to beg explored. Beyond her bedroom, there is a world she wants to see, wants to soar through. 

The only thing stopping her has been fear and she has just seen a man take to the air. Why is she afraid? What is there to be scared of? 

She stands from the cushion and comes towards them, her shoulders set and her chin lifted. The man greets her with a wave of his hand, “Hey, Princess! Did you enjoy the show?” Flynn Rider is paused with his towel around his shoulders and oh his eyes are the softest brown she has seen, and there is something electric about being here in front of him.

“I loved it.” She confesses, tries to find it in her to keep that courage. She knows what she wants, and more importantly, what she doesn’t want. Her wings have been clipped too long, she will die in that room and she is terrified of it, living without ever living.

“I want to join the circus.”


	2. Eugene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can be dressed up, it can be painted, it can be bedazzled and awe inspiring-- it's still a cage.

Beyond his caravan door, there is a circus teeming with life. The faces change and beyond the fence and the gates, there are cobble streets that change, too. Further beyond the streets, there are neighborhoods and cities. Outside the circus, there is a world he may never know.

He leaves his caravan every morning, hungry for something he has never had a name for, never had a solid idea about. It is like the smoke that trails their trains, like the smog that hangs over the buildings-- it looks tangible but his fingers cannot reach to even determine the validity of it all. 

There is this hole in his chest and he yearns to fill it, to find the place where the dizzying tempo of the circus crawls to a slow. Where he can feel his pulse sober and relax, where the music in his head matches the music he can hear. He doesn’t know where home is, has never known a real home before this. There were only orphanages upon orphanages before the train that took him here, but he remembers the soft sweet voice of a nun as she ran her fingers over his hair and that is what he thinks is the closest thing to a true dream. The quiet still moments of comfort, of a voice he cannot really remember, of a ghost of a touch through his hair; he chases the memory in his waking moments and reinvents it when he sleeps.

The years have changed him, made him taller and dashing and daring, given him everything he should ever want, and he still hungers for more. Still longs for the idle path that does not collapse on itself after a week, that stands small and somehow proud, with walls of brick and mortar and glass panes. He feels guilty for it, ashamed, the Baron took him from a platform with his best friend and gave them purpose. From picking up animal shit to setting up tents to walking the high wire to leaping from trapeze to trapeze, he has grown and developed, polished into a diamond by the hands that plucked him from the refuse.

The same hands hold him back, press down on his shoulders when his eyes dare look beyond the bright lights to the bricks and mortar of the cities and keep him rooted in the ring. He is useless outside of the circus, there is no place for him, no hope for him. He has heard these words since he was five, he knows them by heart, knows them as well as he knows the grip that saves his life when he swings to and fro. Irish, Jewish, illiterate; his only place is in the air and by Stalyan’s side. 

He owes a lot, to the Baron, to the Circus, but he feels like he is a trophy and not a person, sometimes. The feeling has been cultivated by a blonde with the prettiest green eyes he has ever seen, they hypnotize him. There is no color in the circus that is as bright as her, that is not smudged and dinged by time and grease. She shines, she sparkles, like something he once saw out of a train window-- like fields of green and big blue skies, the likes of which he’ll never see again. 

Where she walks, color follows. She breathes new life into what she sees, with her innocence and delight, taken in by the smallest thing, details he has never spotted. She takes his hands and the world crawls to a slow as she marvels and wonders over things he has forgotten. Popcorn is a wonder and she hates the amount of salt and butter, but she throws it by the handful in her mouth and loves the texture and smell. She calls it strange, and he is forever drawn to how her lips pucker and her eyes widen. A mixture of disgust and delight, the first time he saw it, he laughed and laughed until he thought he might cry. 

Rapunzel comes from the streets outside, dressed oddly, talking strangely; she is one of them and she is not one of them. There are things she doesn’t know that he does, things he does know and she doesn’t. She begs him to teach her the trapeze, that she wants to fly, to be free; he thinks she doesn’t know that freedom isn’t found in the tent, that it’s outside. She offers to teach him to read, to write, and tells him it’s never too late to know; he thinks she’s lying. If she’s not, the Baron was, and he hesitates about that. The Baron gave him life, gave him purpose, took him and Lance under his wing and let him soar above the crowds.

He thinks he wants to come down.

Beyond his caravan door, there is a circus that is the life he has only known. The faces change daily and beyond the fence and the gates, he can see that the cobble streets he never gets to walk change, too. Further beyond the streets, there are neighborhoods and cities he wants to wander through. Outside the circus, there is a world he secretly longs to be apart of and experience.

Her hand is in his, warm with little spots of thickness still coming in from hard work. He can feel her pulse, constant and sweet, and his heart slows to match the steady beat of hers. In his head he can imagine the nun’s lullaby, hummed, he can find the notes in each easy breath she takes. She is excited but there is an evenness that he envies; he feels sweaty and she is so calm, the rock in his storm, the lighthouse in his night.

“Run away with me,” She says to him, and her eyes are alight with colors he has never found a match for in the months she’s been here, never found the proper name for. Is it that easy, he wonders, trapped in her gaze like she is Medusa and he is turned to stone, but his blood still pumps and he can feel her grip, holding his world together. She jumped from a window to find her freedom, wings still clipped, and she has wandered the ground while he was above, envious of the air he reached, the heights he soared to. 

And then her feathers came in and she called his home another cage.

It confused him, alarmed him, he rejected the notion and beat his fists to the walls of his caravan as her words repeated over and over for him. He has not been outside the fence since he arrived, he has never been allowed to meander out even with the others as they carouse-- hell, he is not allowed to even sit with the other performers at meals and talk. He may only perform, only supposed to speak with Baron and his men and his Stalyan and Lance and Cass, and now that he has seen the edges of his life, he hates it.

The sick feeling of guilt and shame weighs his shoulders down, he should be grateful for all he has been allowed to have, all the Baron has shared with him. He was once awed like Rapunzel was by the color and music and people, but it spun him around til he accepted it as ordinary. It was still a privilege to be here, an honor he earned with performances and his blood and sweat and tears, so he doesn’t understand when the tent cloth with its stripes really became bars that held him in. 

He can climb the ladder and wow a crowd, he can dive and he can soar and they will jump to their feet to scream; but he cannot fly. He go to such amazing heights, but he can only go where he is allowed to go, trapped in a cage that is painted gold and now the paint is peeling away. There is the rust and the dirt and the edges that will cut him if he tries to come too close, but there it is, right there just outside of his grasp, just within his view. 

A world that is fresh and new, exciting, soothing, one that taps taps taps along like the slow drip of a spigot.

It’s not perfect, but the world is wide and open, he is limited only by his ethnicity and status. He sits by himself in his caravan and drums his fingers over the worn wood, smoothed by repeated use and touch, eroded by his skin, by his time. Years, this has been his place. Everyone who has ever gotten close to him outside of the few he is allowed to talk to has gone, left him, and Rapunzel remains constant-- except now she wants to leave. Now she wants to go, too. She said she wanted to join the circus, but even as large as the tents are, even as high as they rise; it’s not enough. 

The only difference between the ones before and her is that… she wants him to come with her. 

He leans back on his bed, trailing his eyes along the nicks and dents from years of use. There’s where Cass threw a knife, this is where Lance fell and broke the cabinet, here is where he punched a hole; the wood holds his memories like a book and if he runs his fingers along them, he can read his past. Hear the laughter and shouting and feel the rush and the arms around him, the hands on his back. He could give this all up, disappear like it meant nothing, but he can’t look away from the other side of the caravan, where his best friend’s bed is opposite to his.

He’s still staring when Lance comes back from practice, sweaty and a little bloody from a nick on his cheek. The dopey grin on his face is wiped away when he meets his gaze and he feels the heat of him as he sits next to him, filling the emptiness of his space with the warmth only he can. More than a friend, he’s a brother, he’s the only family he has. The knife thrower only counts when the sharp edges aren’t pointed at him.

“She wants me to run away with her.” And he doesn’t need to explain further, to say more. He can feel the wobble in his voice, the uncertainty that seizes him and shakes him up. With one question, he is rattled to his core. Rapunzel has waltzed into his life and turned his world upside down and he hasn’t even thought of Stalyan beyond a cursory ‘This is going to make her mad.’ His world is built up to marry her because that’s what Baron wants him to do and she’s so distant to him that he hasn’t considered how she’ll react. 

He hates that it makes Rapunzel’s case so much stronger. Run away. To what? To where? His hands drag down his face and he breathes in, breathes out, tries to focus on the callouses as they press against his face. 

Beyond his caravan door, there is a circus that has trapped him in its fake grandeur. The faces are full of hope and awe and they change daily, and beyond the fence and the gates, he can the cobble streets that inspire him with the same sort of wonder and excitement. Further beyond the streets, there are neighborhoods and cities he longs to be apart of, envious of the simple pleasures they take for granted. Outside the circus, there is a whole wide world that is begging him to come and partake of it.

He itches and he longs and he finds his feet beneath him. He always knew the answer, didn’t he? He was scared of it, he’s still terrified of it, he feels the quake in his bones and the tremble of his hands, but it's right there in front of him, isn’t it? 

He thinks of her hand outstretched to him, covered in paint but soft, her skin warm and freckled from the sun, the way she shone even in the grunge around them. Trash piles around them, her dress dirty and torn, her hair rumpled and braided in loops down her back; Rapunzel still looks untouched, unbroken by the circus life. Baron will try to break her if he has more time, she will beat against a new cage until she falls to pieces at his feet, but she has held out her hand and the words still play on his ears like the lullaby from his childhood. A siren’s song of dreams long gone.

‘Run away with me.’

It echoes in his heart, pulses in his blood, the whisper of a promise of a life outside-- not alone, free, and something else that he holds his breath about because he hasn’t the name of the emotion she invokes him in, that she shines so brightly with. He’s seen it on Lance, on Cass, never really directed his way-- not even from Stalyan in her visits. 

The haversack beneath his bed comes out and he is pulling out the meager amount of clothes he has, not his performance outfits, to pack away. His few prized possessions get bundled into the clothes and tucked away; a comb from the nun, a bandana from Lance, a small miniature painted by Rapunzel… With each item, he feels heavier, weighed down by insecurities and fears. He’s making the choice, but is it right?

It’s not until he looks up and sees Lance with a stuffed bag of his own, a loopy grin on his face, that the sinking feeling in his gut slips away. “Buddy, you can’t get rid of me.” He’s told, and the smile that splits his own face, he can’t believe-- he can’t wait. 

“It’s an adventure,” He risks and Lance claps him on the back, pushing him out the door. It’s odd to creep through the shadows of the circus, slipping past tents and stalls and the rabble that linger after shows. It’s late, that’s the only way this will work, and he can’t wait to trade the air of mold and sick and salt for something new. The ground is muddy and sinks beneath his feet, but the straws keeps it from making too much noise, keeps him from slipping and falling as they rush away from their home of the last seventeen years.

Just outside the gates ahead, just outside the pillars of yellow and red striped wood with a banner stretched high above, he can see a blonde shifting side to side on her toes with her fingers laced behind her back, her braid swinging like a metronome that hypnotizes him. She’s so familiar, the sight so welcoming, his heart seizes and he feels the bubble in his chest grow. He’s so close, he’s so near, he doesn’t even mind the dark brunette standing beside her tossing a knife up and down.

He wants to grab her, lift her, swing her about and sing her praises; this is a woman who found her wings and refused to be caged again, who coaxed him out of his own. She pried apart the bars and smiled and gave him the choice to be free or to stay in his pretty gilded cage. Instead, when she turns to face him, delight coloring her whole person toe to crown, he takes her hand in his and pulls and the bubble bursts, finally. 

He laughs and she laughs, running down the sidewalk and skipping over cracks and holes. He’s on the ground, he’s got both feet planted on terra firma and somehow he’s still soaring high with the wind against his cheeks. It’s terrifying, it’s invigorating, it's the world slipping away from him and welcoming him all at once. 

“No more cages, Flynn!” She sounds like a nightingale with the sweetest of music, and he does spin her, at last, taking her by the hips and lifting her high in the air as he pirouettes before her arms find her way around his shoulders and she sinks down. Their foreheads touch and the look in her eyes almost undoes him completely, he has never felt this light in the air, never felt so much joy even when he captivated hundreds. A few months with her and he is spilling over, overwhelmed with everything and relishing every moment of it.

Outside the Baron’s Big Top, there is a world that actually wants him and welcomes him, beckons him to explore it and find his place in it.

He feels the smile, feels the softness of her hands on him, the weight of her joy washing over him, and there is something he wants to say, one last shackle to undo before he can step free of it all finally.

“Eugene.”

And the weight lifts and, god, it feels good to say that again. To be someone who he wants to be, someone who isn’t just an act to be locked away in a caravan and carted out for performances. To be a person.

And her brows pull and she tilts her head a little, and he keeps smiling, a hand up to cup her cheek and run his thumb along the rosey spot just below her eye. She leans into his touch, welcomes it like they’ve done this time and time again, and it feels like it, even though this is the first time they’ve dared be so close. When he speaks next, she comes alive again, the smile enough to keep him warm all through the rest of his life because of the understanding and sheer happiness she feels that he’s shared something so important with her. 

“My name’s Eugene Fitzherbert.”


End file.
